You might imagine that a small family is like a small town in that everyone in it knows everybody else’s business. To a certain degree, you would be correct. We know all the players and the names of their spouses and children. We keep each other abreast of the major events whether by family grapevine or official admission, but we are a far flung bunch of individuals who rarely get together outside of said major events. We’re more like a network of nuclear families connected by tin cans and string.

I have one blood cousin and a few vague memories of pomegranates, a horse (appaloosa, I think), dolls and Hello Kitty. Her mother loved making doll clothes. Every outfit she ever created for my dolls was beautifully sewn with professional quality craftsmanship. The last time I remember speaking to my aunt was on my 13th or 14th birthday. She had given me a Cabbage Patch Kid the year before – they were still very hot items (my sister had 6 or 7) – and I thought I recognized the shape of the box under the wrapping paper. Having reached the age where I wanted to be treated more like an adult but hadn’t yet mastered the social skills, I blithely blurted out “Gee, I hope it’s not another Cabbage Patch Kid!” as I began to unwrap… another Cabbage Patch Kid. My mother, who had known what it was, scolded me in embarrassed shock and rightly so. I was an ungrateful, spoiled, brat. My aunt didn’t say a word as I stammered out a mortified thank you, but that was the last time I saw either her or my cousin for years afterward.

My perceptions are that, like her mother, my cousin is very bright, highly sensitive, unfailingly polite and extremely shy. She also seems very skittish in that, she will allow herself to be talked into making a family appearance, then back out at the last minute. Over the years, this has left me with the impression that maybe I didn’t break the family tree all by myself; she just isn’t comfortable around my side of the family in general. From her perspective, I can’t say that I blame her. We’re loud, insensitive (I’m pretty sure I unintentionally insulted her furniture the last time I saw her) and just don’t have the social graces that she was brought up with. We don’t mean to be rude; it’s just that we don’t always think before speaking. We are a family sitcom in the flesh, full of wacky characters, accidental honesty and good intentions. Hijinks ensue on a regular basis.

The interesting thing is that it doesn’t make me jealous of her niceties or her family’s money, or angry with her for the perception of disapproval, or even make me feel as if I’m worth less as a human being. What it does make me is sad; sad and embarrassed and guilty. Of the five of us (including my sister and our two step-cousins), I am by far the least polished. I don’t revel in it, but I do acknowledge it. I am an awkward guest and an unskilled host, but I’m also working to improve myself if even in fits and starts.

There is still a part of me that feels it’s all my fault, however unrealistic that might be, but the guilt leads to the embarrassment which in turn breeds silence – because who wants to open old wounds? – and it becomes a stupid, self-perpetuating circle. It is inexcusably sad that I don’t really know the only three cousins I have.

So, this year, I’ve decided to make a serious New Year’s resolution to get to know my cousins, though maybe I’d better start with letters, which can be edited.

I make a point of playing with Ozzy for a few minutes every night before bed. Although I never tire of watching him chase a red light around, it’s ultimately a selfish act since, if I don’t run him out a bit, he ends up keeping me up all night scratching at my head. Plus, it keeps him in fighting form to handle any wayward bugs that get into the house. Even so, he will often trot off afterward only to return some time later dragging his ribbon-on-a-stick toy onto the bed. I’ve gotten so used to hearing the stick part klunk on the stairs and clink against walls that I don’t even roll over anymore. As long as I’ve played with him once, he’s satisfied to entertain himself for the rest of the night.

So, when I was awakened at 5:30 this morning by a playful scratching on the bedcovers, I figured he had found a q-tip or some such and started to ignore it. But the scratching didn’t stop and began to drag me out of my happy dream place, so I reached over to toss whatever it was off the bed, my hand landing on the most wonderfully soft toy. In that half-awake state, I couldn’t remember ever buying something so silky and thought that maybe I’d grabbed Quincy’s foot by mistake. Confused, I prodded Mym to turn the light on for a better look.

There was a dead mouse right in the middle of the bed. Now I’m not particularly squeamish about mice and generally think they’re pretty cute; even dead ones that haven’t been played with overmuch. It was so soft that I might even have petted it for a bit if it weren’t for the whole disease ridden corpse thing. But, in the end, safety and common sense won out and I carried it by the tail down to the trash then washed my hands thoroughly before feeding the cats first breakfast and going back to bed.

We haven’t figured out how it got in the house yet but, with Ozzy on patrol, I’m not too worried about it.

Christmas is a dangerous holiday. For one thing, the season comes hot on the heels of the biggest coma inducing food fest of the year, so we go into it already not quite feeling ourselves. Add in the crazy driving, the insane shopping experiences, and the weather, and I will do almost anything to avoid leaving my home.

I do enjoy decorating for the seasons, though I refuse to bring out the Christmas gear until at least December so that the fall decorations get their fair shake. Quincy was lounging by the fireplace when I brought the stockings and other gear up from the basement. The wreath went up first, hung high on the wall across from the fireplace where Ozzy couldn’t eat it. Then the stockings, hung high on the dining room wall and draped with wooden cranberries and a silver snowflake accent.

Quincy was still in front of the fireplace when I started clearing the mantle, but I had plenty of room to work around him. Off went the pottery and plushy pumpkins, replaced by a couple of old world Santas, some holiday poppers and a couple of candles, one strategically placed for cat blocking. As I stepped back to check the balance, my foot landed heavily on an outstretched, furry back leg.

And then, like some horrible cartoon, my balance started to shift backwards toward that point in logrolling when you know you’re going to fall and crack your head open so you windmill like crazy while the inevitible result writes itself across your face in bold strokes. Fortunately, there was a mantle nearby to grab, Quincy was significantly more maneuverable than a block of wood, and I weigh a great deal less than your average lumberjack. I didn’t hear anything snap, but he was obviously in a lot of pain and limping pretty heavily. As late in the evening as it was, the best I could do was keep an eye on him overnight and take him to the vet in the morning. I felt horrible.

He actually looked much better the next day, so I decided to wait until evening when I could take him back home immediately. I even left work a little earlier than usual to do so. Since it was rush hour, however, I decided it might be faster to take surface streets home. On any other day, I would have been right. Today, I picked the offramp with a major accident at the base end of it. Several cars made it though the intersection before the police arrived, so that by the time the fire department and two ambulances got there I had nearly front row seats. Half an hour later, I began to have visions of trying to explain to the police that I had to be waved through because my poor cat needed to go to the hospital.

The hallucinagenic police were not being very sympathetic. So, when several other vehicles peeled off across a divide and weren’t stopped, I took advantage of the gap they left and followed. I was nearly an hour late getting home. I flew in the door, grabbed the cat and made for the vet as quickly as I dared.

For the record, x-rays are not covered under pet insurance. The vet didn’t feel anything amiss, but my guilt would not be assuaged by a diagnosis of ‘should be okay’, so I shelled out the $200 to be sure. Either something would turn up in the x-ray validating the expense or I would have peace of mind.

In the end, not only did I not break the cat but, we discovered two weeks earlier than we otherwise would have that he’s still burning too many calories. He went home with a doubled dose of thyroid pills and instructions to eat a lot of protein, which is just as well since it’s going to take a lot of chicken to get back into his good graces after this.